fic: it takes some getting used to (Lost, Jack/Boone, 1/2)
This is for ficangel, for the Boone ficathon. I know it’s not due ‘til Friday, but what the hey.
It is 26 pages in 10-point TNR. Apparently, it is too long for one LJ post; it takes two. The fact that I’ve written something this long is still really fucking startling.
it takes some getting used to
By Gale
SUMMARY: You know you’re having a bad month when being in a plane crash ISN’T the worst thing that’s happened to you.
When he first woke up, Boone didn’t realize anything was wrong.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely true; he knew *something* was wrong. His brain was fuzzy, too fuzzy to think, and it hurt to open his eyes more than a crack so he didn’t do it that often. He could hear someone - he thought it was Shannon, but he wasn’t sure - crying, but that was dumb, because why would Shannon be crying over him? Shannon cried, yeah, but not over *him*.
When he finally opened his eyes all the way, he saw that yes, it *was* Shannon, and she jumped to her feet and yelled “JACK!” loud enough to make his head hurt, then went running out of the cave. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
”It’s okay,” Jack said, hurrying over to him. Shannon was right behind him, and so was Sun, of all people. Huh. All three of them looked pretty crappy, pale and kind of drawn, especially Jack. Shannon’s makeup was smeared, and she didn’t even seem to notice, which was - new, and weird, and not in the mildly interesting way digging a hatch out of the ground was weird, either. Sun’s eyes were wide, like she was surprised to see him. Like she was surprised he was still there.
“It’s okay, Boone, you’re fine,” Jack said, and that was when Boone started to realize something was wrong, because Shannon crying wasn’t weird by itself, but Sun looking surprised he wasn’t dead and Jack being all soothing and reassuring? Not good. Not even *remotely* good.
“Boone,” Jack was saying, and Boone looked at him, blinking a little. Thinking was still fuzzy. “How do you feel?”
”A little-“ he started, and coughed a few times. “A little thirsty. And my leg hurts.”
Jack’s mouth was a thin line. “Sun,” he said, and she handed him a canteen. Jack handed it to Boone. “Here. But not too much, okay? You’re a little dehydrated, and the last thing you need to do right now is throw up.”
“Oh, thank you,” Boone muttered, but he made himself not gulp it down. He’d finished about half the canteen when he put it aside and took long, deep breaths.
Jack frowned at him. “Does that hurt?”
Boone shook his head. “No, it’s just - it feels a little weird. Kind of tight.” He looked at himself. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, he noticed. He’d been wearing one when he went into the plane. So where--
”Where’s my shirt?” he asked, frowning at himself. There were cuts on his chest, he was noticing. Cuts, and a lot of bruises - and wait a minute, were those *stitches*? The shirt going missing was one thing, but he hadn’t had stitches when he and John had left that morn-
“John,” he said, looking at Jack. “Is - where is he? Is he okay?”
”He looked okay the last time I saw him,” Jack said. He sounded grim. “Boone, I need you to-“
”Seriously, he said his legs were crapping out on him.” Boone shook his head. “I don’t - how’d I get back here?”
”Boone-“
Boone peered around Jack and looked at Shannon. “Where’s my shirt?” he asked again.
Jack took hold of his chin. “*Boone*,” he said, and Boone shut up. It sounded a hell of a lot like his mother’s voice, the two or three times she’d really gotten angry with him. “You need to listen to me, okay?”
Boone nodded.
”Good,” Jack said. “We had to cut your shirt off you. I don’t know where John is; no one’s seen him since he dropped you off.” He took a deep breath. That didn’t seem like a great idea, because Jack looked like a strong gust of wind would knock him on his ass, but Jack was still using the voice so Boone wasn’t about to say it out loud.
”You were hurt, Boone,” Jack said, as gently as Boone had ever heard him speak; even more gently than when Shannon had her asthma attack. Another sign something was wrong. “You were - you were very badly hurt. You’ve got some stitches on your chest and your stomach, but I think you’ll be all right. It doesn’t look like infection’s set in.” Another deep breath.
“You told me the plane fell on you, Boone,” Jack said, still so gentle. “Do you remember that?”
”I-not really,” Boone admitted. He’d been in the plane, plane fall down go boom, and then he was here. If he’d said anything, he didn’t remember it.
”John told me you ran off a cliff,” Jack said, “when he dropped you off. So that’s how I treated you. Then you told me you were in the plane and it fell down. Those are two different courses of treatment.” He was speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a child. Boone was starting to get irritated. “You get that, right?”
“No,” Boone said dryly, “I think I’ve suffered some brain d-“
”Shut up and listen to him,” Shannon whispered, and that, too, made Boone shut up. She looked like she was going to be sick.
“Yeah,” Boone said, “I get that. With you so far.” He coughed again.
”Okay,” Jack said. He licked his lips. “By the time I figured out you were right, it was.” He met Boone’s eyes. “It was too late. Infection was started to set in, and it was swelling. We did everything we could, and I think the amputation saved your life as much as the transfusion, but - Boone, we had to lose the leg.”
Boone looked at him for a minute.
Then he said, slowly, “I don’t understand.”
“Your leg,” Sun said. “The blood was not draining. Jack could not do what he needed to do to save it. He does not have the tools here. If he had not removed it, you would have died.” Her face was less surprised now, more kind. “He saved your life.”
“No, I get that,” he said, and looked at Jack. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve said that before. Have I?”
Jack shook his head, smiling a little. “You’ve been out of it for a day or two,” he said.
”Okay,” Boone said, easing his chin back out of Jack’s grip. “And - I mean that, Jack, thank you,” he said, because Jack had saved his fucking *life*, and if he could shake that sense that something was really, really wrong it would be a very good day, because even pale and exhausted-looking, Jack was still hot. And Jack was looking at him all concerned and happy he wasn’t dead, which, whoooo, bonus.
“But that’s stupid,” he said, glancing down past his chest and at his leg, “because my leg’s right he-“
Then he stopped. And looked again.
In a voice he almost didn’t recognize as his own, he heard himself ask, “Where’s my leg?”
*
He didn’t yell. The three of them kept looking at him like they expected him to, what, throw a temper tantrum or something. But he sat there for a second, most of his weight on his hands and the rest supported by the rock wall against his back, and stared off. He saw them, but he didn’t *see* them.
He had one leg. He had a leg-and-a-half, actually, because the leg had been amputated just below his knee, and Jack had said something about that being a good thing, too, because the femoral artery was in the thigh and if he’d bled out from *there*, Jack couldn’t have been sure even amputation would save him. Boone paid attention to that without really paying attention, like taking notes in college. On autopilot.
He had one leg - or, okay, leg-and-a-half - and he was stuck on a deserted island. They had no crutches, no wheelchairs. There weren’t any places to get prosthetic limbs around here, and he had the sneaking suspicion there hadn’t been any left over from the crash, if anyone had even worn one. He was, in effect, crippled.
Crippled. The way John had been. John, who was still missing.
“I’d like to be alone now,” he said, in that same not-his-but-coming-out-of-his-mouth voice, and closed his eyes.
*
When he woke up, Shannon and Jack were gone. Sun was still there, smiling at him. It was a nice smile, he realized, and wished he hadn’t. He was in no mood to go around noticing how nice things were.
“Sun,” Boone said, startling her. “Seriously. I’d like to be alone.”
”You have been,” she said, sitting next to him. “I got here a moment ago. Shannon and Jack left after you fell asleep, and have not come back since.” She started digging things out of the knapsack she’d brought. “Are you hungry?”
”Not really,” Boone said. “But if you have any Darvocet, I wouldn’t say no.” Sun frowned at him. “Darvocet - it’s a painkiller. I don’t think we have any.” He waved a hand at her. “Never mind.”
Sun looked at him for a few seconds, then went back to digging things out. “You need to eat something,” she said, taking out a couple pieces of fruit and a bottle of water. “You must keep your energy up.”
Just looking at food made Boone’s stomach roil. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
Sun looked doubtful. “You have not eaten in almost three days,” she pointed out, “and you have not had enough water yet. You are still weak.”
”I’m fine.”
”You are not.”
”Yes,” he snapped, “I *am*.” He glared at her. “Just - go away, Sun, please? I’m not hungry. I’ll eat something later, maybe, but right now-“ It wasn’t entirely a lie. Thinking about eating was enough to make him nauseous.
It was either visible on his face, or Sun was good at understanding what wasn’t being said; either way, she just nodded and left, leaving the water and fruit behind.
Boone rolled over onto his side as best he could and went back to sleep.
*
That was the way the next week went, really.
Eventually, he ate. Not a lot, and never anything more than a couple pieces of fruit, but enough to keep Sun and Jack from staring at him like he was on suicide watch or something, and really, that was the best Boone could manage just then. He drank plenty of water and didn’t speak unless spoken to, and not even then if he could avoid it.
John came back a couple of days into his - well, Jack called it his recovery, so what the hell. He was still wearing the shirt he’d worn when he carried Boone back to camp, blood and all. He spent his days out in the jungle and his nights by himself, and he didn’t stop by to see how Boone was doing. On anyone else, Boone would have called it guilt, but with John he wasn’t sure.
Michael and the others launched the raft; Claire’s baby - the one she’d had while Jack was performing emergency surgery - was kidnapped by the Frenchwoman, and Sayid and Charlie stole him back; John took a group of people into the jungle and opened the hatch. Sawyer, Jin and Michael came back, talking about radar signals and speedboats and Walt being kidnapped.
Boone found out about most of that after the fact. He slept through most of it.
*
The day after everything returned to normal - everyone from the beach back there; Aaron checked out and pronounced just fine, if maybe a little colicky; Sawyer treated for a gunshot wound to his left arm - Shannon appeared, hands on her hips and said, “You know, you could get off your ass and *do* something.”
Boone looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Like what?”
”I don’t know. Something.” She was wearing one of Sayid’s shirts over her tank top, he noticed. It looked good on her, and for some reason that made him suddenly, unaccountably furious.
“Well, let’s see,” he said thoughtfully, ticking off on his fingers. “I could go hunting - no, wait, one leg. I could help in the garden - no, wait, one leg. I could go fishing - no, wait, one leg. I could-“
”You could help Claire with Aaron.”
”Claire,” Boone said, “has had that baby welded to her since Sayid and Charlie got him back. And I don’t blame her one bit.”
Shannon rolled her eyes. “You’re not dead, Boone, God. You can do something instead of sitting here on your ass all day.”
He looked at her for a long minute. After half a minute, Shannon stopped tossing her hair and started looking uncomfortable.
”I can do something,” Boone said, sounding thoughtful again. He should keep his mouth shut, he knew; right now, he was apt to say or do something horrible, if not both. Shannon was a bitch eleven times out of ten, but she didn’t usually do it to be hurtful. There just wasn’t a filter between her brain and her mouth. Boone had inherited his temper from his mother - slow to rouse, slow to cool, and in-between absolutely hateful.
“You know,” he said, “I could. I could kill myself, spare everyone the trouble of - wait, no. The guns are all locked up, there aren’t enough knives handy, no one thought to bring enough sleeping pills to overdose on, and it’s not like I can just gimp myself off a cliff, it’d take too long.” He pretended to think about it. “I mean, I could just stop eating. It’s slow, but it’s not like I’ve been all that hungry lately, and it’s probably the most humane way available.” He smiled at her. “And if you’re very good, I could get Sayid in here for a deathbed confession and tell him how less than a month ago, you got drunk and came to my hotel room to get your brains fucked ou-“
Shannon slapped him.
Neither of them said anything. She put her hand to her mouth and looked horrified.
“You know,” she said after a couple of seconds, tears spilling over, “you can be a complete asshole sometimes, you know that?”
Boone waited until she had stalked out of the cave to answer her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I do.”
*
The thing was, he didn’t actually want to kill himself, not really. It seemed too - too *final*, somehow. It seemed a little stupid to survive a plane crash and having his leg cut off only to kill himself a week later. Besides, everything he’d told Shannon was true: not enough sleeping pills, no real access to the knives or the guns, and he’d look sort of stupid hopping on one leg off the side of a cliff. Not to mention that that didn’t necessarily mean he’d actually die in the attempt; God, he could be left in even *worse* shape than he was now, with no way to do anything about it one way or the other.
On the other hand, everything *else* he’d told Shannon was true, too. He wasn’t exactly in a position to go hunting or fishing, or much of anything else, for that matter - and that included getting himself to the bathroom and back, and the less he thought about *that* the better. Thank God for Sun, who didn’t so much as blink. He figured she’d had an invalid relative at some point, but he didn’t ask and she didn’t offer.
He could have asked John, but John was spending most of his days at the hatch - oh, no, the *tunnel* - and when he wasn’t, he was still avoiding Boone altogether. He could have asked Jack, but Jack was usually keeping an eye on John - and Kate, too, though that part seemed unspoken. But since Kate was within ten feet of Jack at all times, and Jack was smiling and talking to her and not exactly discouraging the attention, it didn’t seem to be rocket science.
All in all, he was getting used to this sleeping-18-hours-a-day thing. Made the time pass quicker, that was for sure.
*
The next morning, bright and early, Jack was shaking him awake, all disgustingly awake and sleeveless. If he’d been more awake, Boone would have cheerfully hated him, but that required too much energy. “How are you feeling?”
”Shitty,” Boone said flatly. “When are the stitches coming out?” Sure, there’d be scars, but he could live with scars. Scars were the least of his problems.
Jack knelt down and lifted Boone’s shirt up, peering at them for a minute. “Another week or two,” he said. “They seem to be healing pretty well, but a couple were pretty deep and I want to make sure they don’t open up again.” He nodded in the direction of Boone’s legs - well, leg. “Can I?”
”Go ahead.”
Jack lifted the blanket back and stared for a minute, occasionally touching and prodding it - the stump, and God, that was still so weird to say. His stump. He had a stump, not a leg. He was always going to have a stump.
“It’s healing all right,” Jack said, carefully replacing the blanket. “You should let it get some air.”
”They’re going to stare,” Boone said, squeezing his eyes closed for a second. “They *already* stare, but if it’s out where people can see, they’re going to stare even more.” He hated it. Given time, he could probably get used to the part about only having one leg, but people were always going to *stare*. If it hadn’t required a ridiculous amount of effort, he’d be in another cave, one by himself.
“They’re not going to stare,” Jack said.
“Really?” Boone looked at him. “And how would you know that? You’re checking the security tapes every night before you go to bed?”
“Boone-“
”Fine,” he said, closing his eyes again. “I’ll leave it off this afternoon, all right? Now go away. You’re interrupting my sleep.”
Jack snorted. “Oh, right. God forbid you not get your daily 22 hours.”
”Fuck off.” Boone didn’t bother to open his eyes, but he heard Jack’s footsteps lead away, so he guessed he’d won that round.
*
Boone was well aware that just about the stupidest thing he could do while they were stuck here was to crush on a guy - *any* guy, unless it happened to be someone who was both Out and Proud, just so he couldn’t make any mistakes about whether or not said guy was straight; and since no one had done that after two weeks - after the terror settled down into low-lying panic and more than occasional boredom - he decided he’d be better off not staring at anyone, period.
But Jack was like something out of a fucking *western*, all broad-shouldered and uncomfortable with heroics and he had arms people could write bad blank verse about, and right after Jack dragged him back to shore Boone decided well, crushing was okay, just don’t *do* anything about it. Especially not with Jack, who was straight with a capital S.
And somewhere between the whole not-drowning thing and the emergency-surgery thing, Boone decided that it wasn’t so much a crush as slowly, desperately, despairingly falling in love with someone - like, *despairingly*, like something out of a goddamn Lifetime movie. But Jack was smart and funny and not at all hard on the eyes, and he was polite to women and small children (well, just Walt, so small child, anyway), and probably old people, too. It was just his luck that he had to survive a plane crash to meet the man of his dreams.
*
It had been two weeks since It Happened (as Boone was calling it in the back of his head), and John was still avoiding him. Not that he blamed the guy for *that* part - if he’d been responsible for someone being crippled forever, Boone was pretty sure he’d have taken a powder, too - but it still sucked.
And more than that, it *hurt*. There was one person on this entire goddamn island who knew what he was going through, even if it wasn’t exactly the same, and he was like smoke. It wasn’t doing wonders for Boone’s already-crappy temper.
The fifteenth day after It Happened, Boone woke up and found a pair of crutches propped up next to him.
There was no note, but he thought he could figure out who was responsible for them without much trouble.
*
So, okay, crutches. Boone understood them in theory, but he’d never actually had to use them. They couldn’t be that hard, could they?
Well, no, not on solid ground. On solid ground they were probably great, very handy. But the closest the island came to solid ground was in the caves, and that wasn’t “solid” as much as it was “extremely rocky, good for sliding out from under crutches”. The jungle was just as bad, with the occasionally marshy bits and the dirt and the parts you had to hop over which, hey, *crutches*. And he could forget the beach unless it was absolutely necessary, because soft sand was even less his friend than the marshy bits were.
Still, he was trying. Maybe everyone would get off his damn case now.
”Shannon,” he said a couple hours later, when she showed up to see how he was doing and bring him breakfast, “I’m going to need some pants. And a pair of scissors, if you can find one.”
*
By lunch - thanks to some help from Shannon, who bitched and moaned the whole time, but Boone caught her smiling at least twice, so he just bitched and moaned back and made a mental note to do something nice for her later - he was on his feet. Kind of.
“You’re up,” Jack said, when he stopped by a couple hours later to check the stitches. He sounded surprised.
“Good thing you didn’t say ‘you’re on your feet’,” Boone said, “or you would have gotten a crutch to the stomach and I would have been on my ass.” He gritted his teeth and leaned back against the wall of the cave, carefully moving the crutches away from his body. You wouldn’t think it’d be so hard to balance on one leg. “Is this okay, or-“
”No, no, it’s fine,” Jack said, lifting Boone’s shirt up to the middle of his chest and running his fingers over his ribs and the upper part of his stomach. Boone stared at the ceiling of the cave and told himself it was impersonal, Jack was doing doctor things, he’s not hitting on you, you’re not on a *date*.
”Everything looks okay,” Jack said after a minute, letting the shirt drop. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll start taking some of the stitches on your chest out. The ones on your stomach need another week, I think.” He dried his hands on his pants and said, “Okay, now let me see the leg.”
“Easier said than done,” Boone muttered. “Do you want me to actually take them off, or can you just-“ He nodded at the pants he was wearing. One leg had been cut so it ended two inches below the kneeline. If he’d had a sewing kit handy he could have hemmed the damn thing, but Jack had appropriated the sewing kits before sunset on the first day, and right now Boone couldn’t argue the logic of that.
”No, that’s - give me a minute,” Jack said, and dropped to his knees.
Boone stifled the urge to burst out laughing; he had an idea it’d sound more than a little hysterical. Everything he’d ever wanted, up to and including Jack on his knees in front of him, and all he had to do was lose a limb.
Okay, he said silently, I could have been more specific when I was wishing for this. I get that now.
“Still looks okay,” Jack said, climbing to his feet. “Leaving the pants open at the knee lets the air get in. That’s good.”
”It was easier than making the sad puppy face at you and seeing if it’d get me any needles and thread,” Boone said. No reason to lie to the man. Besides, some part of him was taking a perverse thrill in watching people’s eyes slide over the missing leg like it was a gruesome optical illusion.
“The whole thing’s good, actually,” Jack said. He ran his eyes over Boone, head to foot and back up again. Boone resisted the urge to wiggle. “I’ll admit it, I’m surprised to see you up and around so soon.” He smiled a little. “Pleasantly surprised.”
“Yeah, well.” Boone shrugged as best he could. “I figured it was either go off a cliff and hope something sharp killed me on the landing, or get on with it. This was easier than finding a free cliff.”
“Good,” Jack said, still smiling. “I’m glad.”
“Besides,” Boone said, “you’d be pissed if I undid all your hard work.”
After a second, Jack said, “Yeah, that too.”
They looked at each other for a couple seconds.
Finally, so slow he thought he might be dreaming, Boone said, “Um. Do you want to-“
”Jack!” Kate called, and it was by the grace of something outside himself that Boone didn’t slam his head against the wall. The woman had the worst timing *ever*. “You ready?”
”In a minute,” Jack called back. He looked at Boone. “We’re going exploring,” he explained. “No one’s been to the south more than a mile or so, so we thought-“
”Jack,” Boone said, “it’s okay.” He was aware that his face was expressionless, that his voice was utterly calm. It was the same face he used when he talked to his mother after shareholder meetings: pleasant, friendly, and meaningless. “I’ve been around women enough to know that the longer you keep them waiting, the crankier they get.” He nodded at the mouth of the cave. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
Jack looked at him for a long couple of seconds, then nodded. “I’ll check on you later,” he said, and left.
Boone wasn’t going to hold his breath. He was, however, going to look for a knife.
*
“What the hell are you doing?”
”I,” Boone said, not looking up, “am whittling.” He looked at the piece of wood in his hand. “At least, I’m trying to. I can’t say I’m having a lot of success with it.” He sighed and tossed it aside, then glanced up at Sawyer. “Why do you care, anyway? Aren’t there people down at the beach you could be irritating?”
Sawyer didn’t answer, just kept looking at him. “All the things you could be doing with your free time now that you’re not spending all your waking hours with Captain Survivalist, and you go with one you suck at. Always figured you had more sense than that, Metro.”
“Yeah, well.” Boone looked down at the slowly-growing pile of failed wood carvings. “Things change.”
”Sometimes,” Sawyer agreed, leaning on something. To Boone, it looked like a solid length of wood - not bamboo, and not the thin-but-sturdy trees near the beach. This one looked more like some of the trees he’d seen further inland. “This,” he said, tilting his head towards the stick, “is for you.”
”Wow. A stick.” Boone cocked his head. “What do I owe this to?”
”Your charm, your personality,” Sawyer said, “and your fine, fine ass.” He propped it next to Boone. “Thought you might want to spend your time doing something more than torturing innocent pieces of wood that never did anything to you or your loved ones.”
If Sawyer was aware of the irony in suggesting Boone get off his ass and do something useful, he didn’t show it. But then, Boone was starting to think the whole Sawyer-being-useless thing was an act. “Such as?”
Sawyer leaned one arm next to the stick and shrugged. “Weapons, maybe. It’s all well and good to have a case full of guns-“
”Wait, what?” Boone looked at him. “Guns? What guns? We have guns?”
”-but five guns and forty-seven people is not what I would call good math.” He stood up straight and hefted the stick, twirled it a little. “Here,” he said, holding it out to him. “Give it a shot.”
Boone took the stick from him, frowning it a little, and put the knife down to grasp it with both hands. It was as good as it looked, sturdy but not unwieldy, and not too thick to hold properly. “I know shit about archery,” he warned.
”Neither do I,” Sawyer said. “But in a pinch, you could probably get people to learn to use spears.” He shrugged again. “Sure, there’s the Lord of the Flies vibe, but I’ve seen Hurley run. Big boy’d give whoever was chasing him a workout.”
That made Boone smile just a little. “I don’t think we’re that bad off yet,” he said, but most of his attention was still on the stick. He glanced up at Sawyer. “But it’s a thought. Think you could get me a few more of these?”
”Maybe,” Sawyer said, casual as anything. But his eyes were serious in a way Boone hadn’t seen before. Other than the fact that they looked alike, it was hard to reconcile this Sawyer with the one who’d beat the snot out of him a few weeks ago.
”Why’re you doing this?” he asked.
“I’m bored,” Sawyer said. “And it’s not like you have anything better to do.”
”Least I have an excuse for being on my ass most days,” Boone shot back, but he was smiling. Spears. They could do spears - and maybe bows and arrows, if anyone here knew how to make one. But spears were just very sharp sticks. Boone could make very sharp sticks.
“This might work,” he said, trying to be cautious. He met Sawyer’s eyes. “Thanks.”
“Like you said, Metro,” Sawyer said, “it’s a thought.” He reached out and flicked one of Boone’s crutches - but not hard enough to tip him over - and smirked, then turned and left.
*
“Hey,” Jack said, peering over Boone’s shoulder. Boone resisted the urge to lean over it protectively. “How’re you feeling?”
”Not dead,” Boone said grimly. He was tired - he got tired easily, anymore - and his leg was starting to ache from not having ibuprofen since breakfast, but he figured the sooner he got himself used to not attacking the pain meds, the better. He’d been starting to put a dent in them, and it wasn’t like they could pop down to the pharmacy and get some more.
”What are you making?”
Boone didn’t look up. “Spears.”
He could hear the frown in Jack’s voice. “You think we’ll need them?”
”I think it’s better we have them and not need them,” Boone said, “than we need them and don’t have them.” He frowned at the length of wood. It *looked* thick enough, but the real test wouldn’t be until it was needed, God forbid. “I thought you were spending the morning with Kate in the garden.”
“Came to get some water,” Jack said. “You sure you’re feeling all right? You’re sweating.”
”I’m outside on a tropical island,” Boone said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and kept carving. Doing something with his hands made him feel useful, made him feel like he was doing something. He hadn’t felt this - well, not good, but not-crappy since It Happened.
He was aware that Jack was still watching him. “Look,” Boone said, glancing up at him. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “I’ll finish this one and go inside, okay?”
“Uh huh,” Jack said absently, running a hand over Boone’s forehead.
Boone jerked back. “I’m not running a fever,” he snapped. “I tire easy these days, okay? It just means I’m hot.”
Jack looked at him wordlessly, then handed him the canteen he was holding. “Here,” he said. “I think you need this more than I do.”
”Fuck off.”
Jack let out a long breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said, “the hard way.” He crouched down and took the knife away.
“Jack!”
Jack ignored him. “Now, you’re going to go inside out of the heat, and you’re going to drink this-“ he hefted the canteen again “-and maybe eat something, and get some rest.”
”All I’ve been doing is resting,” Boone said. He was starting to get a headache, and not from the heat. Either he was on his ass all day, draining everyone’s time and resources, or he was overexerting himself and needed some rest. There was never going to be any kind of happy goddamn medium.
“Jack, I-“ He closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, and opened his eyes again. “I need to *do* something. I can’t just sit here and rot in a cave.” He was more than a little embarrassed to find tears in his eyes. “If you want me to beg to stay out here, I will. I’m not proud.” He snorted. “I’m not a lot of things I used to be.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “you are,” and his voice was so firm Boone could only look at him. “And you don’t have to beg, okay? I don’t want that.” He looked around. “How the hell did you get out here, anyway?”
”Walked,” Boone said, but shrugged when Jack arched an eyebrow at him. “I asked Sun to help me out here. Thought I’d try to get some fresh air while everyone was out for the day. It seemed easier than trying to do it at night, when everyone stares at you like you’re an extra from a bad Italian zombie movie.”
”You say that like there’s a good Italian zombie movie,” Jack said, smiling a little. The smile slowly faded, but the light stayed in his eyes. “I’m not upset to see you out, Boone. I’m just worried.”
Boone made a noise to show he was paying attention. “One of the first things they teach you in med school, huh?”
“Not really,” Jack said, and kept looking steadily at him.
And there it was again, that weird, slow sense that they were having at least two different conversations. It had happened that day in the cave, when Jack was checking his stitches, and sometimes Boone caught Jack glancing over at him, but it was even stronger now. It was almost like Jack *wanted* him to say something, wanted him to try and make the first-
“Boone,” Kate said, and they both jumped. But no, not a hallucination; there was the lady herself, carrying another load of sturdy sticks from wherever Sawyer was finding them. It looked like four, maybe five. “There you are. I thought you’d still be inside.”
”Thought I’d try to get some fresh air,” Boone said, his voice even. He looked away from Jack. “Sawyer send you?”
”Michael’s got him looking at something,” she said. “I was heading this way, thought I’d save him a trip. Is that going to be enough?”
Boone looked at the four - yeah, definitely four - sticks and the one almost-finished in his lap, then mentally toted up the ones he had already stockpiled. “It’ll do,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”
Kate shrugged. “No problem. Like I said, I was heading this way anyway.” She turned a bright smile on Jack, who returned it. “Hey, stranger. Thought you’d abandoned me.”
”Nah,” Jack said, grinning at her. “That’d be rude. I was just-“ He glanced at Boone, and if Boone wasn’t mistaken, he was looking for a graceful exit.
Of course he was mistaken. Had to be. “He was coming by to see how I was,” Boone said, reaching up and taking the knife back from Jack’s fingers. “After he got the water for the two of you. I was a side-trip.” He flashed a brief smile at Jack. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”
Jack looked troubled. “Boone, I’m serious. You should go inside.”
”And I will,” Boone assured him, “as soon as I’ve finished here.” He made a shooing motion with his free hand. “You guys get going. I’m a big boy, Jack, I’ll be fine.”
”Okay,” Kate said brightly, smiling at him. It was a nice smile, part of Boone noticed absently. Jack was probably very lucky. “You’re sure, right? You’re not just being nice?”
And she wasn’t trying to be cruel; that was the hell of it. She wasn’t trying to rub her happiness in his nose, to make him feel like he wanted to throw up and start screaming and go looking for that hypothetical cliff. That only made it worse.
”I’m not just being nice,” he told her, still holding onto that smile. It didn’t feel real, but it must have looked it; she was beaming back at him. “Ask Shannon. I’m never nice.” He ducked his head and tested the edge of the blade against the pad of his thumb. It would hold; he’d just trade it out for another tonight or tomorrow morning. “Seriously, I’m going to finish this and head inside, get some rest.”
“How?” Jack asked. “You’re out here by yourself, you don’t have any available handholds-“
”Then I’ll figure something out,” Boone said, not looking up.
Jack sounded doubtful. “If you’re sure.”
”I’m sure,” Boone said. He still didn’t look up. “Go plant things. Make them grow.”
He told himself he just meant the fruit.
*
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Jack and Kate had finally gotten together. Hooked up. Paired off. Whatever euphemism you wanted to use, the time for it was now. You could hardly find one without the other at meals, and even during the day if they could manage it. They probably even slept next to each other, but Boone had - with Sun’s help - moved into a small cave off to the side, one with holes in the rock he could use as handholds to get up in the morning and lever himself down at night, and he wasn’t in a position to see, for which he was more than a little grateful.
Boone told himself it didn’t hurt. Jack was straight, which he’d known from the start, and he hadn’t owed Boone anything; he’d known that from the start, too. Maybe he didn’t think Kate was good for the guy, but in his more honest moments he knew that wasn’t any kind of actual information on his part as much as it was seething jealousy.
Anyway, what was the other option? That he’d wake up one day and find that not only was Jack not as straight as he’d thought, but that Jack had no problems being in a relationship with a mostly-still-bitter cripple with one leg and lingering scars, physical and otherwise? Riiiiight. And the day after *that*, they’d all be rescued and scientists would be able to clone him a new leg.
*
“You’re still acting squirrelly, you know,” Shannon said, going through John’s collection of knives. She held one up; Boone shook his head. “I mean, it’s better than when you were off with Locke all day, reenacting The Deer Hunter or whatever-“
”That’s about Vietnam, Shannon,” he said, rolling his eyes. She made a face at him and held up another knife. “Maybe.”
They were both silent for a minute, Shannon holding up knives and Boone shaking his head or telling her to put them aside. Then Shannon, not looking at him, said, “So. Um. I’ve started seeing Sayid.”
”Okay,” Boone said after a minute. He wasn’t sure how she wanted him to react.
“And I just thought, you know, that you should know,” she said, holding up another knife. He shook his head. “So you don’t decide to go all caveman on him or whatever like you did Trevor-“
”Trevor,” Boone said, “was an asshole.”
”Well, yeah, but he was an asshole with a Ferrari,” Shannon said. “And it wasn’t like he was that bad of a boyfriend.”
”He cheated on you. With your *roommate*.”
”Yeah, but Nicky was a bitch anyway.” Shannon tossed her head and looked at him. “I’m serious, Boone. I really like him. And I don’t-“ She shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want you. Saying anything to him.”
Boone was quiet for a long time, studying the knives he’d had her put aside. That one, he decided, and picked it up, testing it against the edge of his thumb. Yeah, it’d do.
“About what?” he finally asked, and Shannon smiled at him - *really* smiled, for the first time in how long he wasn’t sure. It was a beautiful smile, he noticed, instead of the really pretty ones she usually wore.
”Okay,” she said, and nodded at the knife in his hand. “That it?”
”Yeah.”
”You want me to put the rest of these back?”
”Please.”
*
It was weird, but Boone hadn’t been this fit since - God, *ever*. He’d never exactly been out of shape, but never had to work for it, either. He’d never been one to do four or five hours a week at the gym, and he’d never really *had* to.
Being out here was different. There was no caffeine, no alcohol, plenty of fish and fresh fruit. Getting around involved walking in soft sand and across rocky terrain, if not outright hiking, and he was so tired at the end of the day that he slept like someone had brained him with a stick. Any toxins he’d managed to store in his body had been sweated out weeks ago, and he hadn’t had any real opportunity to get any more in his system. He was in the best shape of his life: his upper body was compensating for his lower body, what with his stomach muscles and arms and back. If it wasn’t for the missing leg and the lack of any kind of sex life, he’d say this was the best he’d ever felt, no question.
And the effect wasn’t lost on other people, either. He’d noticed people starting to stare at him, and not just with the morbid fascination they saved for the leg. One of the really hot girls from the beach, the redhead - Jenny, Jessie, something with a J - had made a point of coming by when he was outside working on the spears, smiling at him and making small talk. Surprisingly Hot Guy With a Ponytail had offered to spot Sun a couple mornings in bringing Boone breakfast; that one, he’d overheard. Hell, Sawyer had leered at him and asked if he’d needed some help scrubbing his back, and maybe Boone’s gaydar was on the fritz, but that damn sure sounded like a come-on.
And he’d smiled, and said no thanks.
“No!” he told Shannon that night. “I said no thank you to someone scrubbing my back. What the hell?”
”Well, it’s Sawyer,” Shannon said, wrinkling her nose. “Being hot only gets you so far.” She looked over at Boone. “Don’t say it,” she warned.
”Wasn’t even thinking it,” Boone lied. “But it’s the principle of the thing. It’s not like I’m fielding a lot of offers these days.”
”Oh, don’t even start,” Shannon said. She grabbed hold of his arm and helped him up enough to get his hands in the holes so he could start hauling himself up. “You know,” she said brightly, “if you ignore the cripple thing, you’re looking good these days.” She cocked her head. “Buff and sweaty works better for you than gel monkey. I mean. Hypothetically.” Shannon coughed into her hand.
Okay, Boone thought, so it was still weird between them. But even weird and awkward was better than they’d done in the twelve years previous, which was both impressive and kind of sad. “That’s not the point,” he said, stopping halfway up. He was more than a little aware that he looked mildly stupid like this, like someone doing a crappy Spider-Man impression, but he still got winded easily.
“Okay. So what is?”
Boone looked over his shoulder at her as best he could. “It’s different now,” he said after a few seconds, looking back at the wall.
Anyone else would have taken the hint. Not Shannon. “How?” she pressed. “The leg?”
“The leg,” he agreed. “I mean, that’s most of it. But more of it’s me.” He shifted his weight to get a hand free, made a little gesture in the air with it. “It’s-“
But then, he knew what the problem was, and it’s wasn’t the missing leg, not entirely. It was him.
Everyone here was rebuilding - who they were, who they were supposed to be, trying to find a happy medium. With the exception of John, Boone couldn’t think of anyone who *didn’t* want to be rescued, but after the debacle with the raft, no one had tried to do anything about it. He’d overheard Kate telling someone something Jack had told her once, that who they’d been before had died in the crash, and that was as good an analogy as any.
Except he was behind everyone else, because - big surprise - having a limb amputated sort of set you back in the Becoming a New Me process. He’d had to start from scratch twice now, where everyone else had just had to do it once, and it had left him - skittish. Part of him was stuck thinking that if he tried to start over *again*, something else would happen, and maybe this time he’d be dead instead of just crippled.
Also, yeah, one leg. Nothing in the world to make you feel less sexy, especially when most people still winced and looked away when they caught sight of it.
“It’s mostly me,” he said again, and tossed his head to knock his bangs out of his eyes. “I can barely stand to be around me, some days. I’m not putting anyone else through that.”
”Whatever,” Shannon muttered, digging around in the duffel bag at her feet. She handed him a shirt. “I’m not condoning Sawyer, okay? Yeah, he’s hot, but if you tried anything Kate would hand you your *other* leg.” And God love her, she didn’t look embarrassed at saying it.
“Kate,” Boone said, his voice muffled by the shirt, “does not need to start hoarding all the hot guys on this island.” He got his head and one arm through, and balanced his weight on his other arm while he finished putting the shirt on. “Like Jack’s not enough.” He glared at her. “Don’t say it.”
”Wasn’t even thinking it,” Shannon said, but Boone had the sneaking suspicion she was lying, too.
It is 26 pages in 10-point TNR. Apparently, it is too long for one LJ post; it takes two. The fact that I’ve written something this long is still really fucking startling.
it takes some getting used to
By Gale
SUMMARY: You know you’re having a bad month when being in a plane crash ISN’T the worst thing that’s happened to you.
When he first woke up, Boone didn’t realize anything was wrong.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely true; he knew *something* was wrong. His brain was fuzzy, too fuzzy to think, and it hurt to open his eyes more than a crack so he didn’t do it that often. He could hear someone - he thought it was Shannon, but he wasn’t sure - crying, but that was dumb, because why would Shannon be crying over him? Shannon cried, yeah, but not over *him*.
When he finally opened his eyes all the way, he saw that yes, it *was* Shannon, and she jumped to her feet and yelled “JACK!” loud enough to make his head hurt, then went running out of the cave. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
”It’s okay,” Jack said, hurrying over to him. Shannon was right behind him, and so was Sun, of all people. Huh. All three of them looked pretty crappy, pale and kind of drawn, especially Jack. Shannon’s makeup was smeared, and she didn’t even seem to notice, which was - new, and weird, and not in the mildly interesting way digging a hatch out of the ground was weird, either. Sun’s eyes were wide, like she was surprised to see him. Like she was surprised he was still there.
“It’s okay, Boone, you’re fine,” Jack said, and that was when Boone started to realize something was wrong, because Shannon crying wasn’t weird by itself, but Sun looking surprised he wasn’t dead and Jack being all soothing and reassuring? Not good. Not even *remotely* good.
“Boone,” Jack was saying, and Boone looked at him, blinking a little. Thinking was still fuzzy. “How do you feel?”
”A little-“ he started, and coughed a few times. “A little thirsty. And my leg hurts.”
Jack’s mouth was a thin line. “Sun,” he said, and she handed him a canteen. Jack handed it to Boone. “Here. But not too much, okay? You’re a little dehydrated, and the last thing you need to do right now is throw up.”
“Oh, thank you,” Boone muttered, but he made himself not gulp it down. He’d finished about half the canteen when he put it aside and took long, deep breaths.
Jack frowned at him. “Does that hurt?”
Boone shook his head. “No, it’s just - it feels a little weird. Kind of tight.” He looked at himself. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, he noticed. He’d been wearing one when he went into the plane. So where--
”Where’s my shirt?” he asked, frowning at himself. There were cuts on his chest, he was noticing. Cuts, and a lot of bruises - and wait a minute, were those *stitches*? The shirt going missing was one thing, but he hadn’t had stitches when he and John had left that morn-
“John,” he said, looking at Jack. “Is - where is he? Is he okay?”
”He looked okay the last time I saw him,” Jack said. He sounded grim. “Boone, I need you to-“
”Seriously, he said his legs were crapping out on him.” Boone shook his head. “I don’t - how’d I get back here?”
”Boone-“
Boone peered around Jack and looked at Shannon. “Where’s my shirt?” he asked again.
Jack took hold of his chin. “*Boone*,” he said, and Boone shut up. It sounded a hell of a lot like his mother’s voice, the two or three times she’d really gotten angry with him. “You need to listen to me, okay?”
Boone nodded.
”Good,” Jack said. “We had to cut your shirt off you. I don’t know where John is; no one’s seen him since he dropped you off.” He took a deep breath. That didn’t seem like a great idea, because Jack looked like a strong gust of wind would knock him on his ass, but Jack was still using the voice so Boone wasn’t about to say it out loud.
”You were hurt, Boone,” Jack said, as gently as Boone had ever heard him speak; even more gently than when Shannon had her asthma attack. Another sign something was wrong. “You were - you were very badly hurt. You’ve got some stitches on your chest and your stomach, but I think you’ll be all right. It doesn’t look like infection’s set in.” Another deep breath.
“You told me the plane fell on you, Boone,” Jack said, still so gentle. “Do you remember that?”
”I-not really,” Boone admitted. He’d been in the plane, plane fall down go boom, and then he was here. If he’d said anything, he didn’t remember it.
”John told me you ran off a cliff,” Jack said, “when he dropped you off. So that’s how I treated you. Then you told me you were in the plane and it fell down. Those are two different courses of treatment.” He was speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a child. Boone was starting to get irritated. “You get that, right?”
“No,” Boone said dryly, “I think I’ve suffered some brain d-“
”Shut up and listen to him,” Shannon whispered, and that, too, made Boone shut up. She looked like she was going to be sick.
“Yeah,” Boone said, “I get that. With you so far.” He coughed again.
”Okay,” Jack said. He licked his lips. “By the time I figured out you were right, it was.” He met Boone’s eyes. “It was too late. Infection was started to set in, and it was swelling. We did everything we could, and I think the amputation saved your life as much as the transfusion, but - Boone, we had to lose the leg.”
Boone looked at him for a minute.
Then he said, slowly, “I don’t understand.”
“Your leg,” Sun said. “The blood was not draining. Jack could not do what he needed to do to save it. He does not have the tools here. If he had not removed it, you would have died.” Her face was less surprised now, more kind. “He saved your life.”
“No, I get that,” he said, and looked at Jack. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve said that before. Have I?”
Jack shook his head, smiling a little. “You’ve been out of it for a day or two,” he said.
”Okay,” Boone said, easing his chin back out of Jack’s grip. “And - I mean that, Jack, thank you,” he said, because Jack had saved his fucking *life*, and if he could shake that sense that something was really, really wrong it would be a very good day, because even pale and exhausted-looking, Jack was still hot. And Jack was looking at him all concerned and happy he wasn’t dead, which, whoooo, bonus.
“But that’s stupid,” he said, glancing down past his chest and at his leg, “because my leg’s right he-“
Then he stopped. And looked again.
In a voice he almost didn’t recognize as his own, he heard himself ask, “Where’s my leg?”
*
He didn’t yell. The three of them kept looking at him like they expected him to, what, throw a temper tantrum or something. But he sat there for a second, most of his weight on his hands and the rest supported by the rock wall against his back, and stared off. He saw them, but he didn’t *see* them.
He had one leg. He had a leg-and-a-half, actually, because the leg had been amputated just below his knee, and Jack had said something about that being a good thing, too, because the femoral artery was in the thigh and if he’d bled out from *there*, Jack couldn’t have been sure even amputation would save him. Boone paid attention to that without really paying attention, like taking notes in college. On autopilot.
He had one leg - or, okay, leg-and-a-half - and he was stuck on a deserted island. They had no crutches, no wheelchairs. There weren’t any places to get prosthetic limbs around here, and he had the sneaking suspicion there hadn’t been any left over from the crash, if anyone had even worn one. He was, in effect, crippled.
Crippled. The way John had been. John, who was still missing.
“I’d like to be alone now,” he said, in that same not-his-but-coming-out-of-his-mouth voice, and closed his eyes.
*
When he woke up, Shannon and Jack were gone. Sun was still there, smiling at him. It was a nice smile, he realized, and wished he hadn’t. He was in no mood to go around noticing how nice things were.
“Sun,” Boone said, startling her. “Seriously. I’d like to be alone.”
”You have been,” she said, sitting next to him. “I got here a moment ago. Shannon and Jack left after you fell asleep, and have not come back since.” She started digging things out of the knapsack she’d brought. “Are you hungry?”
”Not really,” Boone said. “But if you have any Darvocet, I wouldn’t say no.” Sun frowned at him. “Darvocet - it’s a painkiller. I don’t think we have any.” He waved a hand at her. “Never mind.”
Sun looked at him for a few seconds, then went back to digging things out. “You need to eat something,” she said, taking out a couple pieces of fruit and a bottle of water. “You must keep your energy up.”
Just looking at food made Boone’s stomach roil. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
Sun looked doubtful. “You have not eaten in almost three days,” she pointed out, “and you have not had enough water yet. You are still weak.”
”I’m fine.”
”You are not.”
”Yes,” he snapped, “I *am*.” He glared at her. “Just - go away, Sun, please? I’m not hungry. I’ll eat something later, maybe, but right now-“ It wasn’t entirely a lie. Thinking about eating was enough to make him nauseous.
It was either visible on his face, or Sun was good at understanding what wasn’t being said; either way, she just nodded and left, leaving the water and fruit behind.
Boone rolled over onto his side as best he could and went back to sleep.
*
That was the way the next week went, really.
Eventually, he ate. Not a lot, and never anything more than a couple pieces of fruit, but enough to keep Sun and Jack from staring at him like he was on suicide watch or something, and really, that was the best Boone could manage just then. He drank plenty of water and didn’t speak unless spoken to, and not even then if he could avoid it.
John came back a couple of days into his - well, Jack called it his recovery, so what the hell. He was still wearing the shirt he’d worn when he carried Boone back to camp, blood and all. He spent his days out in the jungle and his nights by himself, and he didn’t stop by to see how Boone was doing. On anyone else, Boone would have called it guilt, but with John he wasn’t sure.
Michael and the others launched the raft; Claire’s baby - the one she’d had while Jack was performing emergency surgery - was kidnapped by the Frenchwoman, and Sayid and Charlie stole him back; John took a group of people into the jungle and opened the hatch. Sawyer, Jin and Michael came back, talking about radar signals and speedboats and Walt being kidnapped.
Boone found out about most of that after the fact. He slept through most of it.
*
The day after everything returned to normal - everyone from the beach back there; Aaron checked out and pronounced just fine, if maybe a little colicky; Sawyer treated for a gunshot wound to his left arm - Shannon appeared, hands on her hips and said, “You know, you could get off your ass and *do* something.”
Boone looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Like what?”
”I don’t know. Something.” She was wearing one of Sayid’s shirts over her tank top, he noticed. It looked good on her, and for some reason that made him suddenly, unaccountably furious.
“Well, let’s see,” he said thoughtfully, ticking off on his fingers. “I could go hunting - no, wait, one leg. I could help in the garden - no, wait, one leg. I could go fishing - no, wait, one leg. I could-“
”You could help Claire with Aaron.”
”Claire,” Boone said, “has had that baby welded to her since Sayid and Charlie got him back. And I don’t blame her one bit.”
Shannon rolled her eyes. “You’re not dead, Boone, God. You can do something instead of sitting here on your ass all day.”
He looked at her for a long minute. After half a minute, Shannon stopped tossing her hair and started looking uncomfortable.
”I can do something,” Boone said, sounding thoughtful again. He should keep his mouth shut, he knew; right now, he was apt to say or do something horrible, if not both. Shannon was a bitch eleven times out of ten, but she didn’t usually do it to be hurtful. There just wasn’t a filter between her brain and her mouth. Boone had inherited his temper from his mother - slow to rouse, slow to cool, and in-between absolutely hateful.
“You know,” he said, “I could. I could kill myself, spare everyone the trouble of - wait, no. The guns are all locked up, there aren’t enough knives handy, no one thought to bring enough sleeping pills to overdose on, and it’s not like I can just gimp myself off a cliff, it’d take too long.” He pretended to think about it. “I mean, I could just stop eating. It’s slow, but it’s not like I’ve been all that hungry lately, and it’s probably the most humane way available.” He smiled at her. “And if you’re very good, I could get Sayid in here for a deathbed confession and tell him how less than a month ago, you got drunk and came to my hotel room to get your brains fucked ou-“
Shannon slapped him.
Neither of them said anything. She put her hand to her mouth and looked horrified.
“You know,” she said after a couple of seconds, tears spilling over, “you can be a complete asshole sometimes, you know that?”
Boone waited until she had stalked out of the cave to answer her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I do.”
*
The thing was, he didn’t actually want to kill himself, not really. It seemed too - too *final*, somehow. It seemed a little stupid to survive a plane crash and having his leg cut off only to kill himself a week later. Besides, everything he’d told Shannon was true: not enough sleeping pills, no real access to the knives or the guns, and he’d look sort of stupid hopping on one leg off the side of a cliff. Not to mention that that didn’t necessarily mean he’d actually die in the attempt; God, he could be left in even *worse* shape than he was now, with no way to do anything about it one way or the other.
On the other hand, everything *else* he’d told Shannon was true, too. He wasn’t exactly in a position to go hunting or fishing, or much of anything else, for that matter - and that included getting himself to the bathroom and back, and the less he thought about *that* the better. Thank God for Sun, who didn’t so much as blink. He figured she’d had an invalid relative at some point, but he didn’t ask and she didn’t offer.
He could have asked John, but John was spending most of his days at the hatch - oh, no, the *tunnel* - and when he wasn’t, he was still avoiding Boone altogether. He could have asked Jack, but Jack was usually keeping an eye on John - and Kate, too, though that part seemed unspoken. But since Kate was within ten feet of Jack at all times, and Jack was smiling and talking to her and not exactly discouraging the attention, it didn’t seem to be rocket science.
All in all, he was getting used to this sleeping-18-hours-a-day thing. Made the time pass quicker, that was for sure.
*
The next morning, bright and early, Jack was shaking him awake, all disgustingly awake and sleeveless. If he’d been more awake, Boone would have cheerfully hated him, but that required too much energy. “How are you feeling?”
”Shitty,” Boone said flatly. “When are the stitches coming out?” Sure, there’d be scars, but he could live with scars. Scars were the least of his problems.
Jack knelt down and lifted Boone’s shirt up, peering at them for a minute. “Another week or two,” he said. “They seem to be healing pretty well, but a couple were pretty deep and I want to make sure they don’t open up again.” He nodded in the direction of Boone’s legs - well, leg. “Can I?”
”Go ahead.”
Jack lifted the blanket back and stared for a minute, occasionally touching and prodding it - the stump, and God, that was still so weird to say. His stump. He had a stump, not a leg. He was always going to have a stump.
“It’s healing all right,” Jack said, carefully replacing the blanket. “You should let it get some air.”
”They’re going to stare,” Boone said, squeezing his eyes closed for a second. “They *already* stare, but if it’s out where people can see, they’re going to stare even more.” He hated it. Given time, he could probably get used to the part about only having one leg, but people were always going to *stare*. If it hadn’t required a ridiculous amount of effort, he’d be in another cave, one by himself.
“They’re not going to stare,” Jack said.
“Really?” Boone looked at him. “And how would you know that? You’re checking the security tapes every night before you go to bed?”
“Boone-“
”Fine,” he said, closing his eyes again. “I’ll leave it off this afternoon, all right? Now go away. You’re interrupting my sleep.”
Jack snorted. “Oh, right. God forbid you not get your daily 22 hours.”
”Fuck off.” Boone didn’t bother to open his eyes, but he heard Jack’s footsteps lead away, so he guessed he’d won that round.
*
Boone was well aware that just about the stupidest thing he could do while they were stuck here was to crush on a guy - *any* guy, unless it happened to be someone who was both Out and Proud, just so he couldn’t make any mistakes about whether or not said guy was straight; and since no one had done that after two weeks - after the terror settled down into low-lying panic and more than occasional boredom - he decided he’d be better off not staring at anyone, period.
But Jack was like something out of a fucking *western*, all broad-shouldered and uncomfortable with heroics and he had arms people could write bad blank verse about, and right after Jack dragged him back to shore Boone decided well, crushing was okay, just don’t *do* anything about it. Especially not with Jack, who was straight with a capital S.
And somewhere between the whole not-drowning thing and the emergency-surgery thing, Boone decided that it wasn’t so much a crush as slowly, desperately, despairingly falling in love with someone - like, *despairingly*, like something out of a goddamn Lifetime movie. But Jack was smart and funny and not at all hard on the eyes, and he was polite to women and small children (well, just Walt, so small child, anyway), and probably old people, too. It was just his luck that he had to survive a plane crash to meet the man of his dreams.
*
It had been two weeks since It Happened (as Boone was calling it in the back of his head), and John was still avoiding him. Not that he blamed the guy for *that* part - if he’d been responsible for someone being crippled forever, Boone was pretty sure he’d have taken a powder, too - but it still sucked.
And more than that, it *hurt*. There was one person on this entire goddamn island who knew what he was going through, even if it wasn’t exactly the same, and he was like smoke. It wasn’t doing wonders for Boone’s already-crappy temper.
The fifteenth day after It Happened, Boone woke up and found a pair of crutches propped up next to him.
There was no note, but he thought he could figure out who was responsible for them without much trouble.
*
So, okay, crutches. Boone understood them in theory, but he’d never actually had to use them. They couldn’t be that hard, could they?
Well, no, not on solid ground. On solid ground they were probably great, very handy. But the closest the island came to solid ground was in the caves, and that wasn’t “solid” as much as it was “extremely rocky, good for sliding out from under crutches”. The jungle was just as bad, with the occasionally marshy bits and the dirt and the parts you had to hop over which, hey, *crutches*. And he could forget the beach unless it was absolutely necessary, because soft sand was even less his friend than the marshy bits were.
Still, he was trying. Maybe everyone would get off his damn case now.
”Shannon,” he said a couple hours later, when she showed up to see how he was doing and bring him breakfast, “I’m going to need some pants. And a pair of scissors, if you can find one.”
*
By lunch - thanks to some help from Shannon, who bitched and moaned the whole time, but Boone caught her smiling at least twice, so he just bitched and moaned back and made a mental note to do something nice for her later - he was on his feet. Kind of.
“You’re up,” Jack said, when he stopped by a couple hours later to check the stitches. He sounded surprised.
“Good thing you didn’t say ‘you’re on your feet’,” Boone said, “or you would have gotten a crutch to the stomach and I would have been on my ass.” He gritted his teeth and leaned back against the wall of the cave, carefully moving the crutches away from his body. You wouldn’t think it’d be so hard to balance on one leg. “Is this okay, or-“
”No, no, it’s fine,” Jack said, lifting Boone’s shirt up to the middle of his chest and running his fingers over his ribs and the upper part of his stomach. Boone stared at the ceiling of the cave and told himself it was impersonal, Jack was doing doctor things, he’s not hitting on you, you’re not on a *date*.
”Everything looks okay,” Jack said after a minute, letting the shirt drop. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll start taking some of the stitches on your chest out. The ones on your stomach need another week, I think.” He dried his hands on his pants and said, “Okay, now let me see the leg.”
“Easier said than done,” Boone muttered. “Do you want me to actually take them off, or can you just-“ He nodded at the pants he was wearing. One leg had been cut so it ended two inches below the kneeline. If he’d had a sewing kit handy he could have hemmed the damn thing, but Jack had appropriated the sewing kits before sunset on the first day, and right now Boone couldn’t argue the logic of that.
”No, that’s - give me a minute,” Jack said, and dropped to his knees.
Boone stifled the urge to burst out laughing; he had an idea it’d sound more than a little hysterical. Everything he’d ever wanted, up to and including Jack on his knees in front of him, and all he had to do was lose a limb.
Okay, he said silently, I could have been more specific when I was wishing for this. I get that now.
“Still looks okay,” Jack said, climbing to his feet. “Leaving the pants open at the knee lets the air get in. That’s good.”
”It was easier than making the sad puppy face at you and seeing if it’d get me any needles and thread,” Boone said. No reason to lie to the man. Besides, some part of him was taking a perverse thrill in watching people’s eyes slide over the missing leg like it was a gruesome optical illusion.
“The whole thing’s good, actually,” Jack said. He ran his eyes over Boone, head to foot and back up again. Boone resisted the urge to wiggle. “I’ll admit it, I’m surprised to see you up and around so soon.” He smiled a little. “Pleasantly surprised.”
“Yeah, well.” Boone shrugged as best he could. “I figured it was either go off a cliff and hope something sharp killed me on the landing, or get on with it. This was easier than finding a free cliff.”
“Good,” Jack said, still smiling. “I’m glad.”
“Besides,” Boone said, “you’d be pissed if I undid all your hard work.”
After a second, Jack said, “Yeah, that too.”
They looked at each other for a couple seconds.
Finally, so slow he thought he might be dreaming, Boone said, “Um. Do you want to-“
”Jack!” Kate called, and it was by the grace of something outside himself that Boone didn’t slam his head against the wall. The woman had the worst timing *ever*. “You ready?”
”In a minute,” Jack called back. He looked at Boone. “We’re going exploring,” he explained. “No one’s been to the south more than a mile or so, so we thought-“
”Jack,” Boone said, “it’s okay.” He was aware that his face was expressionless, that his voice was utterly calm. It was the same face he used when he talked to his mother after shareholder meetings: pleasant, friendly, and meaningless. “I’ve been around women enough to know that the longer you keep them waiting, the crankier they get.” He nodded at the mouth of the cave. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
Jack looked at him for a long couple of seconds, then nodded. “I’ll check on you later,” he said, and left.
Boone wasn’t going to hold his breath. He was, however, going to look for a knife.
*
“What the hell are you doing?”
”I,” Boone said, not looking up, “am whittling.” He looked at the piece of wood in his hand. “At least, I’m trying to. I can’t say I’m having a lot of success with it.” He sighed and tossed it aside, then glanced up at Sawyer. “Why do you care, anyway? Aren’t there people down at the beach you could be irritating?”
Sawyer didn’t answer, just kept looking at him. “All the things you could be doing with your free time now that you’re not spending all your waking hours with Captain Survivalist, and you go with one you suck at. Always figured you had more sense than that, Metro.”
“Yeah, well.” Boone looked down at the slowly-growing pile of failed wood carvings. “Things change.”
”Sometimes,” Sawyer agreed, leaning on something. To Boone, it looked like a solid length of wood - not bamboo, and not the thin-but-sturdy trees near the beach. This one looked more like some of the trees he’d seen further inland. “This,” he said, tilting his head towards the stick, “is for you.”
”Wow. A stick.” Boone cocked his head. “What do I owe this to?”
”Your charm, your personality,” Sawyer said, “and your fine, fine ass.” He propped it next to Boone. “Thought you might want to spend your time doing something more than torturing innocent pieces of wood that never did anything to you or your loved ones.”
If Sawyer was aware of the irony in suggesting Boone get off his ass and do something useful, he didn’t show it. But then, Boone was starting to think the whole Sawyer-being-useless thing was an act. “Such as?”
Sawyer leaned one arm next to the stick and shrugged. “Weapons, maybe. It’s all well and good to have a case full of guns-“
”Wait, what?” Boone looked at him. “Guns? What guns? We have guns?”
”-but five guns and forty-seven people is not what I would call good math.” He stood up straight and hefted the stick, twirled it a little. “Here,” he said, holding it out to him. “Give it a shot.”
Boone took the stick from him, frowning it a little, and put the knife down to grasp it with both hands. It was as good as it looked, sturdy but not unwieldy, and not too thick to hold properly. “I know shit about archery,” he warned.
”Neither do I,” Sawyer said. “But in a pinch, you could probably get people to learn to use spears.” He shrugged again. “Sure, there’s the Lord of the Flies vibe, but I’ve seen Hurley run. Big boy’d give whoever was chasing him a workout.”
That made Boone smile just a little. “I don’t think we’re that bad off yet,” he said, but most of his attention was still on the stick. He glanced up at Sawyer. “But it’s a thought. Think you could get me a few more of these?”
”Maybe,” Sawyer said, casual as anything. But his eyes were serious in a way Boone hadn’t seen before. Other than the fact that they looked alike, it was hard to reconcile this Sawyer with the one who’d beat the snot out of him a few weeks ago.
”Why’re you doing this?” he asked.
“I’m bored,” Sawyer said. “And it’s not like you have anything better to do.”
”Least I have an excuse for being on my ass most days,” Boone shot back, but he was smiling. Spears. They could do spears - and maybe bows and arrows, if anyone here knew how to make one. But spears were just very sharp sticks. Boone could make very sharp sticks.
“This might work,” he said, trying to be cautious. He met Sawyer’s eyes. “Thanks.”
“Like you said, Metro,” Sawyer said, “it’s a thought.” He reached out and flicked one of Boone’s crutches - but not hard enough to tip him over - and smirked, then turned and left.
*
“Hey,” Jack said, peering over Boone’s shoulder. Boone resisted the urge to lean over it protectively. “How’re you feeling?”
”Not dead,” Boone said grimly. He was tired - he got tired easily, anymore - and his leg was starting to ache from not having ibuprofen since breakfast, but he figured the sooner he got himself used to not attacking the pain meds, the better. He’d been starting to put a dent in them, and it wasn’t like they could pop down to the pharmacy and get some more.
”What are you making?”
Boone didn’t look up. “Spears.”
He could hear the frown in Jack’s voice. “You think we’ll need them?”
”I think it’s better we have them and not need them,” Boone said, “than we need them and don’t have them.” He frowned at the length of wood. It *looked* thick enough, but the real test wouldn’t be until it was needed, God forbid. “I thought you were spending the morning with Kate in the garden.”
“Came to get some water,” Jack said. “You sure you’re feeling all right? You’re sweating.”
”I’m outside on a tropical island,” Boone said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and kept carving. Doing something with his hands made him feel useful, made him feel like he was doing something. He hadn’t felt this - well, not good, but not-crappy since It Happened.
He was aware that Jack was still watching him. “Look,” Boone said, glancing up at him. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “I’ll finish this one and go inside, okay?”
“Uh huh,” Jack said absently, running a hand over Boone’s forehead.
Boone jerked back. “I’m not running a fever,” he snapped. “I tire easy these days, okay? It just means I’m hot.”
Jack looked at him wordlessly, then handed him the canteen he was holding. “Here,” he said. “I think you need this more than I do.”
”Fuck off.”
Jack let out a long breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said, “the hard way.” He crouched down and took the knife away.
“Jack!”
Jack ignored him. “Now, you’re going to go inside out of the heat, and you’re going to drink this-“ he hefted the canteen again “-and maybe eat something, and get some rest.”
”All I’ve been doing is resting,” Boone said. He was starting to get a headache, and not from the heat. Either he was on his ass all day, draining everyone’s time and resources, or he was overexerting himself and needed some rest. There was never going to be any kind of happy goddamn medium.
“Jack, I-“ He closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, and opened his eyes again. “I need to *do* something. I can’t just sit here and rot in a cave.” He was more than a little embarrassed to find tears in his eyes. “If you want me to beg to stay out here, I will. I’m not proud.” He snorted. “I’m not a lot of things I used to be.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “you are,” and his voice was so firm Boone could only look at him. “And you don’t have to beg, okay? I don’t want that.” He looked around. “How the hell did you get out here, anyway?”
”Walked,” Boone said, but shrugged when Jack arched an eyebrow at him. “I asked Sun to help me out here. Thought I’d try to get some fresh air while everyone was out for the day. It seemed easier than trying to do it at night, when everyone stares at you like you’re an extra from a bad Italian zombie movie.”
”You say that like there’s a good Italian zombie movie,” Jack said, smiling a little. The smile slowly faded, but the light stayed in his eyes. “I’m not upset to see you out, Boone. I’m just worried.”
Boone made a noise to show he was paying attention. “One of the first things they teach you in med school, huh?”
“Not really,” Jack said, and kept looking steadily at him.
And there it was again, that weird, slow sense that they were having at least two different conversations. It had happened that day in the cave, when Jack was checking his stitches, and sometimes Boone caught Jack glancing over at him, but it was even stronger now. It was almost like Jack *wanted* him to say something, wanted him to try and make the first-
“Boone,” Kate said, and they both jumped. But no, not a hallucination; there was the lady herself, carrying another load of sturdy sticks from wherever Sawyer was finding them. It looked like four, maybe five. “There you are. I thought you’d still be inside.”
”Thought I’d try to get some fresh air,” Boone said, his voice even. He looked away from Jack. “Sawyer send you?”
”Michael’s got him looking at something,” she said. “I was heading this way, thought I’d save him a trip. Is that going to be enough?”
Boone looked at the four - yeah, definitely four - sticks and the one almost-finished in his lap, then mentally toted up the ones he had already stockpiled. “It’ll do,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”
Kate shrugged. “No problem. Like I said, I was heading this way anyway.” She turned a bright smile on Jack, who returned it. “Hey, stranger. Thought you’d abandoned me.”
”Nah,” Jack said, grinning at her. “That’d be rude. I was just-“ He glanced at Boone, and if Boone wasn’t mistaken, he was looking for a graceful exit.
Of course he was mistaken. Had to be. “He was coming by to see how I was,” Boone said, reaching up and taking the knife back from Jack’s fingers. “After he got the water for the two of you. I was a side-trip.” He flashed a brief smile at Jack. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”
Jack looked troubled. “Boone, I’m serious. You should go inside.”
”And I will,” Boone assured him, “as soon as I’ve finished here.” He made a shooing motion with his free hand. “You guys get going. I’m a big boy, Jack, I’ll be fine.”
”Okay,” Kate said brightly, smiling at him. It was a nice smile, part of Boone noticed absently. Jack was probably very lucky. “You’re sure, right? You’re not just being nice?”
And she wasn’t trying to be cruel; that was the hell of it. She wasn’t trying to rub her happiness in his nose, to make him feel like he wanted to throw up and start screaming and go looking for that hypothetical cliff. That only made it worse.
”I’m not just being nice,” he told her, still holding onto that smile. It didn’t feel real, but it must have looked it; she was beaming back at him. “Ask Shannon. I’m never nice.” He ducked his head and tested the edge of the blade against the pad of his thumb. It would hold; he’d just trade it out for another tonight or tomorrow morning. “Seriously, I’m going to finish this and head inside, get some rest.”
“How?” Jack asked. “You’re out here by yourself, you don’t have any available handholds-“
”Then I’ll figure something out,” Boone said, not looking up.
Jack sounded doubtful. “If you’re sure.”
”I’m sure,” Boone said. He still didn’t look up. “Go plant things. Make them grow.”
He told himself he just meant the fruit.
*
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Jack and Kate had finally gotten together. Hooked up. Paired off. Whatever euphemism you wanted to use, the time for it was now. You could hardly find one without the other at meals, and even during the day if they could manage it. They probably even slept next to each other, but Boone had - with Sun’s help - moved into a small cave off to the side, one with holes in the rock he could use as handholds to get up in the morning and lever himself down at night, and he wasn’t in a position to see, for which he was more than a little grateful.
Boone told himself it didn’t hurt. Jack was straight, which he’d known from the start, and he hadn’t owed Boone anything; he’d known that from the start, too. Maybe he didn’t think Kate was good for the guy, but in his more honest moments he knew that wasn’t any kind of actual information on his part as much as it was seething jealousy.
Anyway, what was the other option? That he’d wake up one day and find that not only was Jack not as straight as he’d thought, but that Jack had no problems being in a relationship with a mostly-still-bitter cripple with one leg and lingering scars, physical and otherwise? Riiiiight. And the day after *that*, they’d all be rescued and scientists would be able to clone him a new leg.
*
“You’re still acting squirrelly, you know,” Shannon said, going through John’s collection of knives. She held one up; Boone shook his head. “I mean, it’s better than when you were off with Locke all day, reenacting The Deer Hunter or whatever-“
”That’s about Vietnam, Shannon,” he said, rolling his eyes. She made a face at him and held up another knife. “Maybe.”
They were both silent for a minute, Shannon holding up knives and Boone shaking his head or telling her to put them aside. Then Shannon, not looking at him, said, “So. Um. I’ve started seeing Sayid.”
”Okay,” Boone said after a minute. He wasn’t sure how she wanted him to react.
“And I just thought, you know, that you should know,” she said, holding up another knife. He shook his head. “So you don’t decide to go all caveman on him or whatever like you did Trevor-“
”Trevor,” Boone said, “was an asshole.”
”Well, yeah, but he was an asshole with a Ferrari,” Shannon said. “And it wasn’t like he was that bad of a boyfriend.”
”He cheated on you. With your *roommate*.”
”Yeah, but Nicky was a bitch anyway.” Shannon tossed her head and looked at him. “I’m serious, Boone. I really like him. And I don’t-“ She shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want you. Saying anything to him.”
Boone was quiet for a long time, studying the knives he’d had her put aside. That one, he decided, and picked it up, testing it against the edge of his thumb. Yeah, it’d do.
“About what?” he finally asked, and Shannon smiled at him - *really* smiled, for the first time in how long he wasn’t sure. It was a beautiful smile, he noticed, instead of the really pretty ones she usually wore.
”Okay,” she said, and nodded at the knife in his hand. “That it?”
”Yeah.”
”You want me to put the rest of these back?”
”Please.”
*
It was weird, but Boone hadn’t been this fit since - God, *ever*. He’d never exactly been out of shape, but never had to work for it, either. He’d never been one to do four or five hours a week at the gym, and he’d never really *had* to.
Being out here was different. There was no caffeine, no alcohol, plenty of fish and fresh fruit. Getting around involved walking in soft sand and across rocky terrain, if not outright hiking, and he was so tired at the end of the day that he slept like someone had brained him with a stick. Any toxins he’d managed to store in his body had been sweated out weeks ago, and he hadn’t had any real opportunity to get any more in his system. He was in the best shape of his life: his upper body was compensating for his lower body, what with his stomach muscles and arms and back. If it wasn’t for the missing leg and the lack of any kind of sex life, he’d say this was the best he’d ever felt, no question.
And the effect wasn’t lost on other people, either. He’d noticed people starting to stare at him, and not just with the morbid fascination they saved for the leg. One of the really hot girls from the beach, the redhead - Jenny, Jessie, something with a J - had made a point of coming by when he was outside working on the spears, smiling at him and making small talk. Surprisingly Hot Guy With a Ponytail had offered to spot Sun a couple mornings in bringing Boone breakfast; that one, he’d overheard. Hell, Sawyer had leered at him and asked if he’d needed some help scrubbing his back, and maybe Boone’s gaydar was on the fritz, but that damn sure sounded like a come-on.
And he’d smiled, and said no thanks.
“No!” he told Shannon that night. “I said no thank you to someone scrubbing my back. What the hell?”
”Well, it’s Sawyer,” Shannon said, wrinkling her nose. “Being hot only gets you so far.” She looked over at Boone. “Don’t say it,” she warned.
”Wasn’t even thinking it,” Boone lied. “But it’s the principle of the thing. It’s not like I’m fielding a lot of offers these days.”
”Oh, don’t even start,” Shannon said. She grabbed hold of his arm and helped him up enough to get his hands in the holes so he could start hauling himself up. “You know,” she said brightly, “if you ignore the cripple thing, you’re looking good these days.” She cocked her head. “Buff and sweaty works better for you than gel monkey. I mean. Hypothetically.” Shannon coughed into her hand.
Okay, Boone thought, so it was still weird between them. But even weird and awkward was better than they’d done in the twelve years previous, which was both impressive and kind of sad. “That’s not the point,” he said, stopping halfway up. He was more than a little aware that he looked mildly stupid like this, like someone doing a crappy Spider-Man impression, but he still got winded easily.
“Okay. So what is?”
Boone looked over his shoulder at her as best he could. “It’s different now,” he said after a few seconds, looking back at the wall.
Anyone else would have taken the hint. Not Shannon. “How?” she pressed. “The leg?”
“The leg,” he agreed. “I mean, that’s most of it. But more of it’s me.” He shifted his weight to get a hand free, made a little gesture in the air with it. “It’s-“
But then, he knew what the problem was, and it’s wasn’t the missing leg, not entirely. It was him.
Everyone here was rebuilding - who they were, who they were supposed to be, trying to find a happy medium. With the exception of John, Boone couldn’t think of anyone who *didn’t* want to be rescued, but after the debacle with the raft, no one had tried to do anything about it. He’d overheard Kate telling someone something Jack had told her once, that who they’d been before had died in the crash, and that was as good an analogy as any.
Except he was behind everyone else, because - big surprise - having a limb amputated sort of set you back in the Becoming a New Me process. He’d had to start from scratch twice now, where everyone else had just had to do it once, and it had left him - skittish. Part of him was stuck thinking that if he tried to start over *again*, something else would happen, and maybe this time he’d be dead instead of just crippled.
Also, yeah, one leg. Nothing in the world to make you feel less sexy, especially when most people still winced and looked away when they caught sight of it.
“It’s mostly me,” he said again, and tossed his head to knock his bangs out of his eyes. “I can barely stand to be around me, some days. I’m not putting anyone else through that.”
”Whatever,” Shannon muttered, digging around in the duffel bag at her feet. She handed him a shirt. “I’m not condoning Sawyer, okay? Yeah, he’s hot, but if you tried anything Kate would hand you your *other* leg.” And God love her, she didn’t look embarrassed at saying it.
“Kate,” Boone said, his voice muffled by the shirt, “does not need to start hoarding all the hot guys on this island.” He got his head and one arm through, and balanced his weight on his other arm while he finished putting the shirt on. “Like Jack’s not enough.” He glared at her. “Don’t say it.”
”Wasn’t even thinking it,” Shannon said, but Boone had the sneaking suspicion she was lying, too.